The Bourbon Kings
Page 71
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She started her greeting as she opened things up. “Hi, there—”
It was not her neighbors with apologies for bovines or canines.
Lane was standing on her porch, and his hair looked worse than it had in the morning, the dark waves sticking straight up off his head like he’d been trying to pull the stuff out.
He was too tired to smile. “I thought I’d see if you made it home all right firsthand.”
“Oh, God, come here.”
They met in the middle, body to body, and she held him hard. He smelled like fresh air, and over his shoulder, she saw that his Porsche had its top down.
“Are you all right?” she said.
“Better now. By the way, I’m kind of drunk.”
“And you drove here? That’s stupid and dangerous.”
“I know. That’s why I’m confessing.”
She stepped back to let him come in. “I was about to eat?”
“You have enough for two?”
“Especially if it will sober you up.” She shook her head. “No more drinking and driving. You think you have problems now? Try adding a DUI to your list.”
“You’re right.” He looked around, and then went over to her piano and rested his hand on the smooth key guard. “God, nothing’s changed.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve been busy at work—”
“That’s a good thing. A great thing.”
The nostalgia on his face as he continued to stare at her antique tools and her hanging quilt and her simple sofa was better than any words he could have spoken.
“Food?’ she prompted.
“Yes. Please.”
Down in the kitchen, he went right over and sat at her little table. And abruptly, it was as if he had never been gone.
Be careful with that, she told herself.
“So how would you like …” She rifled through the contents of her cupboards and her refrigerator. “… well, how’d you like some lasagna that I froze about six months ago, with a side order of nacho chips from a bag I opened last night, capped off with some old Graeter’s Peppermint Stick ice cream.”
Lane’s eyes focused on her and darkened.
Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay. Clearly, he was planning on having something else for dessert—and as her body warmed from the inside out, that was more than all right with her.
Shoot, she so wasn’t listening to common sense here. Getting rid of his wife was only the tip of the iceberg for them, and she needed to keep that in mind.
“I think that sounds like the best meal in the world.”
Lizzie crossed her arms and leaned back against the refrigerator. “Can I be honest?”
“Always.”
“I know that Chantal got served with divorce papers. It was something I walked in on. I didn’t mean to see the deputy do the deed.”
“I told you that I was ending things.”
She rubbed her forehead. “About two minutes before that, she came to me to plan an anniversary dinner for the pair of you.”
There was a quiet curse. “I’m sorry. But I’m telling you right now, there is no future in the cards for her and me.”
Lizzie stared at him long and hard—and in response, he didn’t move, he didn’t blink, he didn’t say another word. He just sat there … and let his actions speak for him.
Damn it, she thought. She really, really didn’t need to fall for him again.
As night settled over the stables, Edward found himself falling into his normal evening routine. Glass of ice? Check. Booze? Check—gin, tonight. Chair? Check.
Except when he sat down and faced all of those necessaries, he drummed his fingers on the armrest instead of putting them to use to crack the seal on the bottle.
“Come on,” he said to himself. “Get with the program.”
Alas … no. For some reason, the door out of the cottage was talking to him more than the Beefeater when it came to things he needed to open.
The day had been a long one, what with a trip to Steeplehill Downs to check on his two horses and make the call, with his vet and his trainer, that Bouncin’ Baby Boy had to be scratched because of that tendon problem. Then he’d been back here, getting an assessment on five of his broodmares and their pregnancies, and reviewing the books and accounts with Moe. At least there had been good news on that front. For the second month in a row, the operation was not just self-sustaining, but pulling a profit. If this kept up, he was going to end those transfers from his mother’s trust, the ones that had been providing a regular injection of cash into the business since back in the eighties.
He wanted to be totally independent of his family.
In fact, one of the first things he’d done when he’d gotten out of the rehab hospital was refuse his trust distributions. He didn’t want to have anything to do with funds even remotely associated with the Bradford Bourbon Company—and the entire stock position of his first- and second-tier trusts was straight-up BBC. In fact, he hadn’t found out about the transfers from his mother to the Red & Black until about six months in, and at that time, he’d been barely waking up to life at the stables. If he’d stopped them at that point? The operation would have gone under.
It had been a long time since someone with any kind of business acumen had been at the horse enterprise, and whatever his weaknesses were now, his knack for making money had remained unscathed.
One more month. Then he’d be free.
It was not her neighbors with apologies for bovines or canines.
Lane was standing on her porch, and his hair looked worse than it had in the morning, the dark waves sticking straight up off his head like he’d been trying to pull the stuff out.
He was too tired to smile. “I thought I’d see if you made it home all right firsthand.”
“Oh, God, come here.”
They met in the middle, body to body, and she held him hard. He smelled like fresh air, and over his shoulder, she saw that his Porsche had its top down.
“Are you all right?” she said.
“Better now. By the way, I’m kind of drunk.”
“And you drove here? That’s stupid and dangerous.”
“I know. That’s why I’m confessing.”
She stepped back to let him come in. “I was about to eat?”
“You have enough for two?”
“Especially if it will sober you up.” She shook her head. “No more drinking and driving. You think you have problems now? Try adding a DUI to your list.”
“You’re right.” He looked around, and then went over to her piano and rested his hand on the smooth key guard. “God, nothing’s changed.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve been busy at work—”
“That’s a good thing. A great thing.”
The nostalgia on his face as he continued to stare at her antique tools and her hanging quilt and her simple sofa was better than any words he could have spoken.
“Food?’ she prompted.
“Yes. Please.”
Down in the kitchen, he went right over and sat at her little table. And abruptly, it was as if he had never been gone.
Be careful with that, she told herself.
“So how would you like …” She rifled through the contents of her cupboards and her refrigerator. “… well, how’d you like some lasagna that I froze about six months ago, with a side order of nacho chips from a bag I opened last night, capped off with some old Graeter’s Peppermint Stick ice cream.”
Lane’s eyes focused on her and darkened.
Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay. Clearly, he was planning on having something else for dessert—and as her body warmed from the inside out, that was more than all right with her.
Shoot, she so wasn’t listening to common sense here. Getting rid of his wife was only the tip of the iceberg for them, and she needed to keep that in mind.
“I think that sounds like the best meal in the world.”
Lizzie crossed her arms and leaned back against the refrigerator. “Can I be honest?”
“Always.”
“I know that Chantal got served with divorce papers. It was something I walked in on. I didn’t mean to see the deputy do the deed.”
“I told you that I was ending things.”
She rubbed her forehead. “About two minutes before that, she came to me to plan an anniversary dinner for the pair of you.”
There was a quiet curse. “I’m sorry. But I’m telling you right now, there is no future in the cards for her and me.”
Lizzie stared at him long and hard—and in response, he didn’t move, he didn’t blink, he didn’t say another word. He just sat there … and let his actions speak for him.
Damn it, she thought. She really, really didn’t need to fall for him again.
As night settled over the stables, Edward found himself falling into his normal evening routine. Glass of ice? Check. Booze? Check—gin, tonight. Chair? Check.
Except when he sat down and faced all of those necessaries, he drummed his fingers on the armrest instead of putting them to use to crack the seal on the bottle.
“Come on,” he said to himself. “Get with the program.”
Alas … no. For some reason, the door out of the cottage was talking to him more than the Beefeater when it came to things he needed to open.
The day had been a long one, what with a trip to Steeplehill Downs to check on his two horses and make the call, with his vet and his trainer, that Bouncin’ Baby Boy had to be scratched because of that tendon problem. Then he’d been back here, getting an assessment on five of his broodmares and their pregnancies, and reviewing the books and accounts with Moe. At least there had been good news on that front. For the second month in a row, the operation was not just self-sustaining, but pulling a profit. If this kept up, he was going to end those transfers from his mother’s trust, the ones that had been providing a regular injection of cash into the business since back in the eighties.
He wanted to be totally independent of his family.
In fact, one of the first things he’d done when he’d gotten out of the rehab hospital was refuse his trust distributions. He didn’t want to have anything to do with funds even remotely associated with the Bradford Bourbon Company—and the entire stock position of his first- and second-tier trusts was straight-up BBC. In fact, he hadn’t found out about the transfers from his mother to the Red & Black until about six months in, and at that time, he’d been barely waking up to life at the stables. If he’d stopped them at that point? The operation would have gone under.
It had been a long time since someone with any kind of business acumen had been at the horse enterprise, and whatever his weaknesses were now, his knack for making money had remained unscathed.
One more month. Then he’d be free.
